


by hand

by keeper0fthestars



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Depression, Despair, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Grief, Heartache, Loss, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeper0fthestars/pseuds/keeper0fthestars
Summary: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."- C.S. Lewis
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	by hand

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a little heavy, I apologize in advance, this is just me dealing with feelings the only way I know how to. My lovelies, please heed the warnings and do not read if you are affected by things like this. Please take care xx

The nervous flutter in your chest is begging you to do this another day. The thing is, you're not sure the day will come that your stomach doesn't turn to rubber at the thought of cracking open this last remaining piece of your past.

You remembered the day Visz had carried the cumbersome thing in and placed it down in the corner of the room. You remembered the empathetic nod he'd given you when you thanked him for the help; you remembered how generous and patient his presence had been then. And still is. 

Maybe if you squeezed your eyes hard enough one more time, you'd wake up in your old bed, the one that was big enough for three, hearing their muffled giggles from the other side, hearing his half-hearted shushing, _'you'll wake her, ad'ika, we must be quiet.'_ As if their tickling and rolling around didn't already rouse you when it first started ten minutes earlier. 

Maybe if you dug your nails hard enough into your palms, you'd wake up nestled under a quilt on the front porch swing where he liked to wrap himself around you and listen to the rain patter against the roof.

Maybe if you finally gave in to the scream that had threatened to claw its way out for the last one hundred and forty-four days, you'd wake up sweating with relief that this had been nothing but a terrible dream. 

The permanent knot in your throat only seems to grow when you force your eyes open to the task at hand. It's been so long, you're not sure what exactly you'll find inside the chest. Bracing clammy hands on the smooth edges, you settle on your knees on the cool stone of the floor; rusty hinges creaking with disuse when you ease the heavy lid open.

A layer of blankets greets you, folded and tucked into the sides of the chest as if their only purpose had been to cushion its contents. As if something fragile sat inside. Carefully pulling on one edge, you lift it out of the way. A little brown robe is the first thing you see. The one he'd outgrown too quickly, the one with the thick collar, accompanied by a soft blue blanket, neatly folded. Gathering strength from a shaky breath, you lift it into the air. Life was so different then. Your bittersweet memories bring a watery smile; at least he was safe now. Those who sought him were no longer a threat and after the arduous search to find his people, the child was out of harm's way for good but it still didn’t stop the tears that well in the corners of your eyes. Not a day went by that you didn't hear that cheerful gurgle, little feet peeking out, dangling in the air as he danced in your arms. If only you’d have known how fast things would change after that. 

Pulling more items out of the chest, you find a pair of gloves. Tattered black leather and russet fingertips tug at a bruised spot just inside your heart, but then a lot of things do that now. The soreness that lives deep in your bone marrow doesn't go away, you've just learned to live around it. 

Some of the stitching has come loose down the thumb of the left one, turning it over, you lay his right glove in your lap. Countless years of toil and wear only left the leather smoother, softer. Even creased and flattened, they remember the shape of his hands. Remember where yours would fit.

The landmines stacked up against the far corner of your mind start to wobble. Like a ladder over a fault line. All it would take is a whisper in the wrong direction for it to succumb to the tremor of sharp tumbling gravel and shards of slate, for it to slide and collapse, leaving nothing but destruction. For you to crumble and suffocate in the devastating onslaught of ashes and shrapnel- before you can stop yourself your palm melts into the smooth surface of the glove, fitting all your fingers in the space between the thumb and the first finger. Caught against the firm grip of memory yanking you backwards, to the day he’d worn a hole through the tip of that finger where it sat over the trigger. 

Both gloves are wet and it takes you a long time to realize why. You’ve slumped forward, the wooden edge of the chest biting into your forehead, ragged breaths mingling with silent tears. You don’t have to bring them to your nose to know the scent they still carry. Your memories float freely now, filling up the cool air of the room and you are grateful you're alone.

At the very bottom, underneath the layers of bed linens and scraps of old clothing, there's a journal. An old forgotten thing you thought had been lost in the move. You know this book because the frayed ribbon still dangles from the bottom when you reach down and pick it up. 

You know this book because you'd used the first two pages to map every single constellation in the quadrant the night you'd exchanged vows. Swallowing the raw pinch at the back of your throat, the tattered canvas cover warms in your hand. 

The pages contain little else except maybe a few carefully pressed blooms, faded and brittle, nestled between fond sketches of pointy green ears and curious black eyes and toothy grins. Nothing but messy little poems and muddled dreams you’d scribbled in the middle of the night before he'd realize you weren't in his arms anymore. Before he'd roll towards you, bleary-eyed, reaching for you, not wanting to interrupt you, but needing to press his mouth between your shoulder blades and fit himself around you, slipping back into soft snores by the time you click the penlight off. 

Pages of charcoal fingerprints, muted memories, smudged now and dwindling, from a different time. A different life. 

You know this book because half the pages sit blank now; there is nothing to write about, nothing new to collect for safekeeping. Your life has been divided into two portions. A before, and an after.

Time and exposure have warped the pages, rolled the corners. The book falls open where the faded ribbon sits, expectantly, on a random page, waiting for the next entry. But you realize it’s not a random page. Tucked into the binding, a folded piece of paper juts out. Picking up the note, you lay it against the page, holding the crease open with your thumb.

You see slanted handwriting that is not your own. 

_Cyar’ika-_

Heart thudding against your ribcage, it snags on the first word, fracturing like frozen glass, draining all the blood from your head. Your stomach pulls you into the floor, the shape of the room blurs in front of you like it is underwater, eyes refusing to focus on the writing because the last time he’d said that to you, he’d whispered it into your skin. Soft and raspy- just under your ear.

Black ink bites into the rims of your eyes. Stings red. Like salt on a wound. The jagged effort to expel a breath makes your ribs splinter, your throat burning like sandpaper. And now you’re trying to breathe through the flat of your palm.

You scramble to decipher the _how_ and the _when._ The date written on the bottom swims before your eyes. With trembling hands, it takes you three tries to read it. He'd written it a year ago. 

Before he left for-

Before he.

Before Visz's boots trudged slow and weary up the stairs to your little cottage, the crippling grip of his hands on your door nothing compared to the weight of the news that choked your reality.

There is no room left in your throat to breathe. Cruel, hot tears race between your fingers, drip off your chin, blotting the page. The wounds may have healed, but the scab is still very thin.

Staying a step ahead of the looming reemergence of supremacy meant you'd been forced to live with minimal transmissions, limited logs and records, entire histories were often deleted with a single tap. Yet, this tangible piece of him you didn't know existed had lived in the back of your journal all this time. He'd written something to you by hand. Evidence that he'd made room for you in his life and you for him.

His words. 

.

.

_Cyar'ika-_

_I never thought I'd belong to anyone but myself,_

_never wanted to,_

_you proved me wrong_

_-Din_

.

.

Staring at the date again, you try and reach back but you cannot for the life of you, recall that day. Where had you been when he'd sat there with your pen, choosing his words, signing his name at the bottom, matching the corners together and carefully tucking the endearment into your journal. 

One more day you'd never get back. 

You run your fingers across the words. The ink etched into each line from the weight of the pen, firm across the paper. Slender lettering, no loops or frivolous strokes. His name at the bottom; the first letter, a periphery of rigid, like a sentinel. Fiercely protective of anything significant enough to be held within. The name itself a mixture of hard edges and tenderly softened lines. Like him. 

You ought to look up right now and find him leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, a soft smile playing on his lips. Waiting for you to notice he's there. Dark eyes stealing your breath with their warmth. _Happy._

You should be teasing him right now. He always did get his point across in as few syllables as possible.

You should be breathing the air between his neck and his shoulder every night. 

Instead, you lay there with one of his capes balled up in your fist, trying to hold on to his scent, eyes full of salt and this jagged hole in your chest that holds the shape of his absence. Asking the stars to bring him back. You do not understand how your heart could bleed this much and still continue beating. Missing him wasn’t even the worst part. Being without him was.

You were supposed to have the rest of your lives together.

You read his note until there are no more tears left in you. At some point, you realize you are still in a crumpled heap on the bedroom floor. 

//

That’s where he found you that afternoon. You didn’t hear him come into the room, you didn’t see him at all until he’d crouched on the floor in front of you, his small hand on your knee. 

How much more of your past had to be offered up in order for your future to stare back at you like this. With his glossy dark hair and eyes to match, helping you to see through the fog. You'd give anything to ease the worried pinch from his forehead and the tight set of his mouth when he sees you like this. You shift without thinking, allowing him to climb into your lap. He buries his head against your shoulder and you hold him close. Messy curls tickling your nose, you inhale sun-kissed skin and innocence, the sweet scent of comfort you have in one another; the here and now, even if you still fight to clear the film from your eyes, even on the good days. This boy that notices your red nose and wet cheeks, even when you think he doesn't. This boy that knew life’s cruelty far too soon. 

He wonders what brought it on this time.

Yellowed pages lay open on the floor, an extra paper filled with writing next to it. The only words he's old enough to recognize are the familiar letters of his father’s name, the one he practices on his own, in secret. And then, he knows.

"S’ okay, mama, it’s good to remember."

~~

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this started when I thought about what Din’s handwriting would be like. 
> 
> Then I saw the quote from Ep.1 of The Haunting of Bly Manor: _"To truly love another person is to accept that the work of loving them is worth the pain of losing them."_  
>  and I have no one to blame but myself because the words struck me and I was compelled to write it.
> 
> If you’ve ever suffered from grief like this, you are in my heart, I love you xx
> 
> I understand that these are difficult times for many of us, myself included and for that reason, I hesitated to post this. I want to say that I treasure all of you. I hope you are all safe and if anyone needs a shoulder, [I'm here](https://keeper0fthestars.tumblr.com)


End file.
